[Dec 2024] 这条路我开过很多次 I Have Driven This Road Many Times

(The English version follows.)

这条路我开过很多次，有时磅礴大雨，有时晴空万里，有时雾气蒸腾，有时白雪皑皑。

现代人的时间大多被手机和电脑占据，盯着路面的时候反而是为数不多我可以想东想西的时候。如果不是路况糟糕，我会看着其他过往的车辆，每辆车有不同的人，每个人有不同的终点。有的人像我一样盯着路面，有的人随着音乐晃动脑袋，有的人开车也不忘用手机，有的人甚至在扶着方向盘打盹；还有很多满脸疲惫的货车司机，他们在夏天在路的右边慢速行驶，到了冬天却经常跑的飞快，把我们这些没装雪胎的小车甩在身后。一条公路上跑着人生百态，我觉得挺有趣的。

可是旅途也不总是有趣的，有时也会非常刺激或是让人感慨。我还记得一个冬天，一个满是积雪的早晨，似乎稍微快一点车就要飘起来，我只能缓慢前行。在积雪中缓行的时候，我突然瞥见左边有一个灰色的物体快速向我靠拢，我来不及多想只能往右偏移一点。在我还没意识到发生什么的时候，那辆灰色的越野车已经转了一圈，横在了公路中央。我把车开到应急车道上，停下了正在播放的钢琴曲，回想着发生的事情。自此以后，每当听到那首钢琴曲，我就会想到那个冬天的早上。

我还记得一个夏天，一个潮湿闷热的晚上，这条公路被堵的水泄不通，我感到十分烦躁，在走走停停了半个多钟头之后，我看到一个被警车和救护车包围的场景，两辆小车被一辆大货车压在下面，黑烟还在缭绕。我随着警察的指引经过那里，心中的烦躁全无，取而代之的是一种难以言说的恐惧和感慨。我知道每辆车里都是一个家庭的一部分，或许他没有家人，或许他没有爱他的家人了，也许那样会更好一点。我不知道谁还活着，或者谁死了，后来我也没有去找这条新闻。

旅途中我时而会想到如爱或死亡这样的宏大却又渺小的命题，可能是因为平时思考的都是一些正常的事，所以在旅途中反而会想一些平时不会思考的事情。这些事情似乎充满意义却又毫无意义，就像人的一生一样。

我想，如果我要死了，我会后悔什么呢？我可能会后悔没有多和家人花点时间，没有看更多的电影和书，没有吃遍各地美食，没有做更多的爱。我绝不会后悔没有努力学习，也不会后悔没有努力工作。我想，如果一个叱咤风云的人要死了，他是会感到满足，还是亦会后悔？他是会带着仇恨，还是会原谅一切？这个世界的原谅似乎永远都是留给后人的，就像金庸所说：“人入黄泉不能复生，算了吧。”

W是一个有气度而善良的人，我刚遇到W的时候，常常以为自己的想法和对世界的认识就是这世上大部分人的想法和认识。W并没有因为我的狭隘而不屑，她只是在我尝试改变她的过程中潜移默化地改变了我。她在车上的时候，我们会聊各种话题，从她做的饭菜到我的研究工作的各种大小事。

我的博士导师是一位睿智而谦逊的人，我常常想起在一次开会时他和我说的话，那时我们在研究一个随机路由算法，他说：“云起，你知道无限猴子定理吗？假设宇宙中有无限只猴子，我们有一只猴子在打字机前随机按键，当它死了，我们替换一只猴子，如此往复，当按键时间达到无穷时，我们几乎必然得到这个世界已有或是未有一切著作，包括莎士比亚全集。”

无穷是美妙的，它可以让你看到所有的可能性，可惜我只是一只猴子。无穷是可怕的，当你看到所有的可能性时，活着就成了一种折磨。

这条路我开过很多次，有时磅礴大雨，有时晴空万里，有时雾气蒸腾，有时白雪皑皑。

纵使一路上有各种风景，我也会到达目的地，当我驶过那座桥，窗口里的人探出头：

“你从哪里来？”

“C市。”

“你到哪里去？”

“T市。”

“你有带什么东西吗？”

“没有。”

“可以了，你走吧。”

I have driven this road many times. Through pouring rain, beneath a clear blue sky, into rising mist, and across a world buried in snow.

For many people today, so much of life is taken up by phones and computers. Strangely, the moments I spend staring at the road are among the few when I can let my mind wander. When road conditions are not too bad, I watch the other cars pass by. Every car carries someone different, and every person is headed toward a different destination. Some, like me, keep their eyes fixed on the road. Some bob their heads to music. Some still glance at their phones while driving. Some even nod off with their hands still on the steering wheel. There are also many exhausted-looking truck drivers. In summer, they move slowly in the right lane, but in winter they often fly past, leaving small cars like ours far behind, especially those without snow tires. So many different lives pass along a single highway. I find this quite fascinating.

But the journey is not always interesting. Sometimes it is tense, and sometimes it leaves behind a kind of wordless heaviness. I still remember one winter morning when the road was covered in snow. It felt as if the car might drift away if I drove even slightly faster, so I could only move forward slowly. As I crept through the snow, I suddenly caught sight of a gray object rushing toward me from the left. I had no time to think and could only steer slightly to the right. Before I fully understood what had happened, the gray SUV had spun around once and come to rest sideways across the middle of the highway. I pulled over onto the shoulder, stopped the music, and sat there replaying the moment in my mind. Ever since then, whenever I hear that piano piece, I think of that winter morning.

I also remember one humid and stifling summer night when the highway was so completely jammed that nothing could move. I was deeply irritated. After more than half an hour of stop-and-go traffic, I came upon an accident scene surrounded by police cars and ambulances. Two small cars had been crushed beneath a large truck, and black smoke was still curling upward. The police directed me past the scene. The irritation I had felt vanished completely, replaced by a fear and sorrow I could not describe. I knew that every car carried a human life, and that every life belonged, in some way, to someone else. Or perhaps they had no family. Or perhaps there was no one left who loved them. Maybe that would have made it a little less unbearable. I did not know who was still alive, or who had died. Later, I chose not to search for the news.

On the road, I sometimes find myself thinking about things both vast and intimate, like love and death. Perhaps it is because, in everyday life, my mind is occupied with ordinary concerns, while travel creates space for thoughts I would otherwise avoid or overlook. They seem at once profound and utterly meaningless, much like our lives themselves.

I wonder, if I were about to die, what would I regret? Perhaps I would regret not spending more time with my family, not watching more films, not reading more books, not trying more foods from distant places, or not making love more often. I would certainly not regret failing to study harder, nor would I regret failing to work harder. And what of someone who once held the world in their hands? At the edge of death, would they feel fulfilled, or would regret find them too? Would they die with hatred in their heart, or would they forgive everything? Forgiveness, it seems, is a choice left only to those who remain. Years later, when Jin Yong met Deng Xiaoping, the leader of the party responsible for his father’s wrongful execution, he said only, “The dead cannot return from the underworld. I will leave it in the past.”

I think of W, a generous and kind person. When I first met her, I often assumed that most people thought as I did and understood the world as I did. W never looked down on me for the narrowness of that view. Instead, she changed me quietly and almost imperceptibly, even as I tried to change her. Whenever we were in the car together, we talked about everything, from the meals she cooked to the smallest details of my research.

I also think of my Ph.D. advisor, a wise and humble man. I often remember something he once said to me during a meeting. At the time, we were studying a randomized routing algorithm. He said, “Yunqi, have you heard of the infinite monkey theorem? Suppose there are infinitely many monkeys in the universe. We place one monkey in front of a typewriter and let it press keys at random. When it dies, we replace it with another monkey, and continue this process forever. If this continues for an infinite amount of time, the monkeys will almost surely produce every work that has ever existed or could ever exist, including the complete works of Shakespeare.”

Infinity is beautiful. It allows you to see every possibility. Unfortunately, I am only one monkey. Infinity is terrifying. When you see every possibility, being alive becomes a kind of torment.

I have driven this road many times. Through pouring rain, beneath a clear blue sky, into rising mist, and across a world buried in snow.

No matter how the scenery changes along the way, I still arrive at the same destination. When I drive past that bridge, the person behind the window leans out and asks:

“Where are you coming from?”

“C City.”

“Where are you going?”

“T City.”

“Anything to declare?”

“No.”

“All right. You can go.”